Bedtime Story
by vultures
Summary: On a cold winter night, a young mother spins her yarn. AU.


**Author:** vultures a.k.a andthedescent

**Fandom: **BBC's Robin Hood

**Title: **Bedtime Story

**Rated: **G

**Spoilers: **None, really.

**Characters:** Marian, Gisborne, OC.

**Summary: **On a cold winter's night, a young mother spins her yarn. AU.

**Disclaimer: **Oh, I wish.

**A/N: **The bunny bit me.

"Tell a story," a little boy pleads, and the candle beside his bed casts it's flickering light across his face, the face that is so reminiscent of his father's. It reflects oddly in his pale blue eyes.

"Not now, darling. I am tired and you should be asleep," the mother admonishes, and a lock of dark hair escapes its bun as she leans down to kiss him on the cheek. The child reaches out, takes hold of her arm as she straightens up. He feels grown up now that he is five years old, and does not want to have to go to sleep yet, before everyone else in their house.

"Please?"

Sighing, the mother settles herself down on the edge of her son's bed, reaching back to stroke his dark, dark hair away from his face. Her mind travels back, piecing together a fairytale that her father had told to her as a child. She has always imagined herself as the heroine, and in the place of the hero there is a man she knew once, long ago. As the brave hero of her tale speaks, she imagines his face, his laugh. But she is being stupid. She said goodbye to him long ago. She was a girl then.

"Uncle tells me stories," little Edward tells her, unexpectedly. Her eyebrows shoot up and suddenly she is looking at him more intently.

"What stories? When?" she asks sharply, and instantly softens her expression when Edward looks up at her, surprised at her sudden vehemence. "What does… uncle-" she falters over that world - "tell you?"

"He told me about the Crusades, in the Holy Land. He said…" and his voice unconsciously takes on the inflections of the Sheriff's as he parrots the older man's words, "That they were an opportunity. He said that we got more taxes and more land in the Holy Land, and more heathen slaves to work for us. He told me about the King and Prince John and Sal… Sally…din."

"Saladin," the mother corrects automatically, her voice the faintest of whispers. She is no heartbroken teenager any longer, but to hear these words spilling so brightly from her son's lips, it feels like loss and betrayal all over again. She thinks of the things that already he might have heard, have picked up on, and inwardly she shivers.

"I'll tell you a story," she says, suddenly, and does not have to look down to know that he is smiling triumphantly. No mother should have to be afraid of what their child is, what he will grow up to be.

"Once upon a time, in a land far, far away," she says, because that is how all good bedtime stories begin, "There were two Kings. Each had their own Kingdom and their own loyal subjects, who respected them and looked to them for guidance. But these two Kingdoms, they called their Gods by different names and wore and ate different things. Because of this they thought themselves very different. Their Kings, though, were quite similar. They were both greedy, and would not share the magical, sacred lands that their Gods had given them. So the two Kings declared war on each other. And you know what happened then?"

Edward, his eyes shining with excitement at this new tale, shook his head. He had not noticed the strange, mournful look in his mother's eyes.

"People died."

He flinched.

"The Kings gathered all their best young men and rode out to battle. The men left their homes, their friends, their _fiancées, _and they went out to the Holy Land and they fought in the name of their King. And this is what it all came down to, the politics and the misunderstandings and the greed of the two Kings: young men killing and dying in the dust.

And so many died. So many men with a commendation sent back to their families in their place but that's no good, no comfort at all because you can't love a letter. And then, the women that they left back at home, they had to move on and stop hoping for fairytale endings. And they can't decide what's worse, the pain - an ache in your chest right here - or later, when they realise all of a sudden that they've grown used to the idea that he's never coming back and it frightens them, that their love can be dismissed that easily…

So they marry someone else. Someone who's fine and rich and handsome but just isn't _him, _isn't the one they loved, and have children. Beautiful, wonderful children who they know they ought to love very much. But they still dream every night that the letter was a mistake, that one day soon - tomorrow, even, he's going to come striding up to this house, his house, and sweep them away from this life, away from their husbands and their sons, and everything will be right in the world again."

And she looked down at little Edward, chest heaving, as he stared up at her with wide and frightened eyes.

"And sometimes, they can't even bring themselves to feel guilty for these dreams."

The mother left the room, choked by unshed tears.


End file.
